


Bare Skin

by SparrowWritesFanfiction



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Engineer is a fuckin den mother, House Cleaning, Other, Platonic Relationships, Scars, Self-Acceptance, Self-Harm, So much cleaning, Trust Issues, also swimming, and scout is a twat, clean-up crew
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 21:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6536740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparrowWritesFanfiction/pseuds/SparrowWritesFanfiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cleaning up after a crew of nine motley mercenaries is one thing. Trusting them with the darkest parts of yourself is another entirely.  But how can you keep your secrets from the nine men who are best at discovering them? Here's a hint. You can't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sparrow's Note: Yes, yes! I've been away for, like, 700 years. I'm sorry, i really am. I was writing, but was too scared to post anything since i don't think most of my work is any good. So here is a story to hopefully help me get back into the swing of writing. This is a very self-indulgent story, and it's helping me deal with many things. But i hope you can all enjoy this multi-chapter escapade! Thanks for reading. -Sparrow

Cease fire was always a difficult time with the crew. Never quite off work, but never quite on duty either. Those days are a time of well concealed anxiety, stifled energy and anticipation. Because, let’s face it, when you work with ear-blasting explosions and lightning fast gunfire twenty feet away from you like I do, silence become pretty deafening. 

Hey, at least I’m not the one getting shot at. I just mop up the blood as the mercenaries move to the next part of the arena. Still, even with my minimum-risk job, you gotta watch out for that occasional un-exploded bomb or crushed glass bottle. That shit is freaky.  
After a solid month and a half of war in the teufort district, we finally get our usual notice. A yellow envelope, enclosing the five days of cease fire that always happens when we rotate war zone areas. Ever since the first notice, engineer has gotten it worked into a routine. One day to pack up all our stuff, take the long distance teleporters, and unpack in the new base. One day for me to clean the dusty old house we’re assigned to, and for the mercenaries to scope the arena and report any missing objects or broken parts. That leaves us with three days. Three days with nothing to do but wait in that god awful silence. 

So what, you might wonder, do we do? Well, we fill it with noise of course. 

“Alright, lemme see if I got this right, “ Engineer says as he squints at a clipboard, tapping the chewed end of a pen against his lips. “Gravel Pit Analyses Report: 2 missing tires, burst backup boiler, and faulty wiring in the left wing bathroom. That all?” The Texan gazes at the half circle of tired men who are draped over the overstuffed furniture in the GravelPit house’s excuse for a living room. From my vantage point on the rickety poker table I can see nine suitcases thrown across the floor that I would probably end up taking to their rooms. Typical. 

“Jesus Tex, yes. For the third time. Can we go now?” Comes a high voice from the couch. Despite sinking into the massive amount of stuffing, we could all tell who it was from the flapping gestures of two bandaged and skinny hands. Engie heaved a long suffering sigh as he straightened his goggles, and gestured towards the ramshackle door. One by one, the slumped mercenaries filed out, each one bothered by the fact that their coworker made them search the acres of map despite the early hour. Thankfully, they took their suitcases. One less thing for me to do.  
Engie blindly thrust the clipboard towards me, rubbing his eyes underneath his welding goggles. Despite his leadership and determination, even he was tired. We were off schedule with our departure due to a late notice this month, and it took all night for the troop to pack and move. Now it was four in the morning, with the first strains of sun leaking through the dusty windows. I took the clipboard with my left hand, right one currently occupied with a cup of coffee. 

“Go to bed, Soap. We’re all exhausted.” The Texan comments as he eyes my mug of caffeine with a disproving shake of his head. I sigh. Bed sounds so nice. But I really can’t, and he knows it. So he leaves, shutting the squeaky door behind him, and leaving me alone with the flickering lights, lists of chores, and the first grey slivers of sun to come. 

It takes a while to get into the swing of cleaning, especially so early. But after months of disuse and neglect, the house needs attention whether I like it or not. Soon I fall into a state of calm cleaning. There’s a system that never fails to bring life back into a home, and it brings me a deep sense of satisfaction. I suppose that’s why I’m so good at this job. Starting at the rooms at the back, I begin a long day. For hours I open windows, sweep crud-laden floors, scrub cabinets and tables and every surface that is reachable with my vinegar-laden cloth. Then I beat the living shit out of the moth-eaten curtains I’ve dragged outside. It’s very therapeutic. Before I know it the sun is coming down in heavy golden rays that shine proudly across the sparkling tile and glittering windows. After a prideful once-over of the now spotless two level house, exhaustion replaces determination. Finally I feel the strain of being awake for so long. But there’s not much left to do, I remind myself as I wipe my scrubbed-raw hands on my red uniform; I just have to prep meals for today, then I can fall into the deliciously comforting arms of a freshly-made bed.

Two and a half hours later I’m sweaty, exhausted, and more than my fair share of grouchy. It’s three in the afternoon, and the men that slept like the dead are beginning to stir, evident by the squeaking footfalls of the bedrooms overhead. But it was worth it. There is a massive plate of sandwiches on the counter, along with a pitcher of fresh lemonade. Tucked into the fridge are nine individual pot pies, fully cooked and waiting to be oven-heated for dinner. Finally, FINALLY, I remove the handkerchief that tied back my hair, signifying my work to be done. Funny how everyone knows that now, I think as I walk up the stairs. All the guys know that when I have my hair tied up with a red cloth that I’m working, and when my hair’s down that I’m not. Kind of like a red light green light. 

Out of habit I make my way down to the very last bedroom, systematically rapping my fist twice on each door, to the protest of their occupants. I had already busted in their rooms once to clean, and from the sounds they made, they would not appreciate a second visit. So knocking would have to do. 

My bed, though old and tired, was soft and felt like absolute bliss to my well worked body. Without bothering to change into night clothes, I crawled into the welcoming cool sheets, a sanctuary from the heat of the day. Sleep was swift and dark, quickly consuming the nagging voice in my head. You have a lot of work to do, it said.

God, I have a lot of work to do.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's tough when people forget how hard you try. Especially if you try hard for them.

When sleep finally spits me up, it feels like I’ve awoken from a coma. Limbs stiff and eyes gummed shut, the incentive to try and find sleep’s respite is overwhelming. Until that little chattering voice of reason picks up again. After several minutes of sloth-like struggling, I’m up, glancing blearily at the clock on the wall. 7:00 am. Every day since I started this job four months ago, I’ve gotten up at 7:00. Clockwork. Regimen. It’s what kept it all together for me.

I would like to say it came naturally to wake up at this hour, I really would. But that hellish stamping in the hallway would defeat that blatant lie. I yawn, rubbing the spittle off my cheek and trying to get my blood moving. Good thing I brought a few spare uniforms. This vinegar spattered, slightly dusty and slept-in one was NOT going to cut it today. I mused blankly, starting into the spotted mirror as I absentmindedly picked at the dress hem. It’s not a very pretty uniform. A loose red dress, knee-high and unfitted. Black canvas leggings; it used to be hosiery, but that was out of the question when I tore my first pair in five minutes while repairing a wall. All together the ensemble was plain and easily looked over, which was fine by me. It was a worry of mine, when I first joined, that I’d be dressed like some pretty little maid for the better ogling of the boys. Thankfully, that wasn’t the case. Mainly because on my third day I walked into Medic’s office to find him engaged in some very compromising behavior with the heavy. So I didn’t worry much about objectification after that. 

“GET UP, SOLDIER, OR SO HELP ME I WILL BUST IN THERE AND KICK YOUR SCRAWNY ASS SO FAR INTO THE DESERT YOU’LL BE EATING OUT OF A TUBE FOR A WEEK!” Obnoxiously loud caterwauls shocked me from my musing as soldier ranted outside of scout’s room next door. A muffled ‘go to hell’ was heard through the wall, followed by a very loud BANG of a door being bust open, much to the undignified shrieks of dismay of the room’s occupant. Not wanting to be the next victim of Soldier’s infamous morning patriotism, I changed as quickly as possible before stepping into the bright hallway. The sight that confronted me would have made me laugh if I wasn’t so sleepy. Two inches from my face stood soldier, clad head to toe in striped pajamas, with a flailing boston boy flung over his shoulder. His fist was poised to rap against my door and he froze. 

“GOOD MORNING, SOAP!” He boomed with a crooked grin, “GOOD TO SEE SOMEONE IS UP AND READY TO PARTICIPATE IN A BEAUTIFUL AMERICAN DAY!”

My ear rang from the assault, and I put up a single tired finger in front of soldier’s mouth. Just like working with kids, I had several signs for soldier. An open hand towards the ground meant ‘it’s time to calm down’. Two fingers raised in the air meant ‘Stop what you’re doing, and think’. A finger to the mouth said, very clearly, ‘use your inside voice or so help me I will disembowel you with nothing but a sponge and a handful of soap flakes’. 

The American’s smile slumped a bit, and his once stoic hand drooped. And, like a child with his favorite toy taken from him, he marched angrily in the other direction, oblivious to the scout clawing at the walls and straining towards me. I smiled at the Bostonian, waving at his fish gape mouthing of ‘help me or I’ll strangle you’. 

As I walked down the stairs, I grinned. Today might be a good day after all.

You know what, scratch that. Today started as utter shit, anyway. While I was making breakfast, people kept stealing the chocolate chips meant for the pancakes, and I had to enlist pyro to guard them. Even when that was done It took over an hour to get all the mercenaries corralled around the table for breakfast. They may be some of the most intelligent and capable men around, but they sure acted like children. 

It was touch and go at breakfast, usually. Engie would keep trying to get up and grab a gadget, and I’d have to dart over, put two hands on his shoulders and re-engage him in conversation with demoman. Scout was stealing food, heavy and medic were laughing so raucously over something they kept forgetting to eat, and I’d already extinguished three cigarettes spy tried to smoke at the table. 

Wedged between a smelly Australian and a rubber suited giggle machine, it was difficult to navigate a constantly-jostled forkful of potatoes to my mouth. Sure, a lot of days I loved it, the loud conversation I could partake in, and forget I was any different from one of the guys. But today it just felt like a buzzing in my ear, a bee humming to close for comfort. But being who I am, I sat in the middle of this jumble and I stewed. Soon the plates were empty and each class had wandered off to prep their weapons or do their work before they planned the day. Leaving me. Alone at a table, surrounded by dirty dishes. 

I gathered plates and dumped them in the sink with a little more force than necessary. Wasn’t it enough that I cooked every meal, I cleaned every room, washed every dirty piece of clothing, repaired the house, kept up communications with the office, and handled our shopping? Couldn’t they be bothered to at least put their own dishes in the goddamn sink?!

“Oh, fuck.” I muttered. A plate had slipped from my soapy gloved hand, and shattered on the clean floor, leaving glittering china and watery syrup all over the tiles. I put my hands on my head, breathing out slowly. I hadn’t even had a chance to shower since we got here. After this, I had to cut some sheet metal and repair the shingled area on the roof. After that…I lost track of what I had to do. 

So when sniper rounded the corner asking when the laundry would be finished, I damn near snapped. 

“You know what? I don’t know WHEN it will be done.” I snarled, wiping my hands viciously on a dish towel, “It might get done after I clean up YOUR BREAKFAST MESS, it might get done after I’m finished doing YOUR GROCERY RUNS, it might get done when I finish filing YOUR PAPERWORK.” Ripping off the rubber gloves, I whip around to face that Australian, anger I didn’t know I was repressing bubbling up. I stepped toward him, and he took one back, hands raised slightly in the air.

“Looks, suds, you seem a bit tired-“ He began. Did he just say I looked tired?

“Tired? TIRED?” I laughed, poking a finger on his vest-clad chest, “I’m exhausted! But I still have hours of work to do! You know what I was hired as, MUNDY?” Sniper shook his head, taken aback, as I continued, “I was hired to WASH THE BLOOD OFF THE ARENA, not be a freakin’ housemaid to all of you! And what thanks do I get? None!” 

The crack of china halted my rant. I had stepped onto a piece of the broken plate. Deep breathes, deep breathes.

Sniper’s firmly pressed mouth began to open, threatening to break the very delicate silence that had been imposed.

“Don’t.” I said angrily. The mouth shut again. “Just. Just get out. I’ll run some laundry in a few hours.” I finished, turning back to the sink. Much to my surprise, my vision began to waver ever so slightly with hot tears as I clenched my hands. Footsteps faded to the back of the house as I finished cleaning up the shattered mess I made. 

Hot running water and the therapeutic swoosh of soap calmed me a bit. I felt bad about snapping at Sniper; he hadn’t done anything wrong, really. Pensively, I chewed the inside of my cheek. I’m fine with doing all this stuff for these guys, right? So why was I upset? Why now?

I was almost finished drying a frying pan when it clicked. I was sick of being taken for granted. When I started this job, I talked very little. Did my work, maintained the arena, went back to my room. Slowly, I started doing things that the mercenaries didn’t like to do, and to be honest, didn’t do very well. I’d do the laundry and deposit it, folded and still warm, onto its individual owner’s bed. It made my day, those surprised smiles, the thank yous. I started doing more. Making home cooked meals instead of pre-packaged ones, sweeping the halls and buffing the floors. It’s how I got to know the mercenaries. From the thank yous, the appreciative murmurs when I set down a plate of home-cooked lasagna. It made me feel validated, I realized. Tolerated. Appreciated, like I was worth something. But over the past few months that had gone away. No one said thank you, no one told me my cooking was great. No one commented on the sparkling condition of their living quarters. I was taken for granted. I did twice my assigned workload, for no repayment. And I was taken for granted. 

I finished putting the cutlery and cooking ware away, and wondered what would happen if I just went back to doing just the work I was paid for. It would cut my work load more than in half. But the household would fall apart and the guys would start bickering again. No, i can’t go back to the way I used to work. Even I’m dependent on my structure now. 

Sighing, I grabbed the baskets of wet laundry I finished, and dragged them out to the clothesline. I was blinded by the glare of the sun off the metal structures that sat a couple hundred meters away from our house on the sloping hill; the gravel arena, palace of death. It was beautiful. I admit, despite all that was swirling around in my head, it was a beautiful day. The desert beyond the fence swam with a heavy heat, the sky blue and empty. No sounds met my ears except for the song of the wind chime I put up last time, and the hot breeze that rolled across the endless sand and the purple mountains miles away. 

The force of the heat started to dampen my forehead immediately, and for a moment I wished for some shorts and a wife beater shirt. As I struggled to pin up an enormous wet blanket, water ran down the underside of my arm and I laughed, shaking my head. What a silly thought. Wearing something that went above my knees or showed my back. That was the one rule I was adamant about; don’t pull my clothing. God knows what would happen if the body underneath was exposed. The very thought sent cold lead straight to my stomach, and I quickly started pinning up more shirts to flutter in the desert wind, hoping I could forget that terrifying thought.

God knows what would happen if anyone saw.

If anyone knew the truth.


	3. Wasted Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who wants to get drunk?

Sometimes it’s important to enjoy the little things in life. Like the hot summer sun warming your face, the gentle breeze that sets the laundry aflutter, or the comforting hum of machinery.

It’s hard to enjoy the little things when a stream of water starts to run around your legs. “What the…fuck?” I whispered, staring at my damp shoes. Arms still full of wet towels, I followed the trail of water across the dry ground, walking up the steep hill to the side of the base. We shouldn’t be losing water like this. Not in the desert. The trail led up the hill about to hundred meters, and with every step my heart dropped. The top of the hill is where we kept the reservoir of fresh water. The trickle around my feet was widening to a stream, and soon there was clear water rushing around me in little rivulets. I rounded the side of the enormous water tank on the hill-top and promptly dropped all the laundry. The tank had a massive leak in its side. A 4 foot wide gash had been ripped in it, thick metal chopped to bits. This wasn’t a leak; this hole had to be manmade.

“Shit, shit, shit.” I groaned, putting my hands on my head. Our clear drinking water continued to gush out of the tank; that was our allotted water for the month. Fuck. I can’t fix this by myself. In a desperate attempt to slow it down, I mash the towels into the gaping hole. It slows the water a little bit, but not much.

“Ok, ok, ok. Think, and do your best.” I repeated the mantra my dad had said to me since I was little. Turning, I ran down the hill, slipping and sliding on the slick mud. As I neared the back entrance I started to yell for the guys, breathing heavily and shouting. “Engie! Soldier! Somebody, we got a problem!” I call, yanking the door back door open. Suddenly I hear a zipping noise from the dark hall before me, and impulsively duck as an arrow flies over my head.

“Christ, Sudsy, I thought you were a spy. Never heard you scream bloody murder before.” Groaned Sniper, lowering his bow. Some day that neurotic Australian was going to be the death of me. Now my heart is beating double time, half out of panic over the water and half out of shock of my near death.

“Ok, Sniper, we can discuss your bad shooting habits later,” I panted as I ran past him, “But the water tank has a major leak. Get engie!” I call the last words over my shoulder as I run deeper into the base, looking for Heavy. If there was anybody that was strong enough to bend the metal back, it was him. As I fly into the TV room, I see the Russian look up from his book in the reading chair. He’s immediately to his feet as he sees the panic on my face. “Go to the water tank, there’s a leak. I’ll be right behind you, gonna get some metal for a patch!” I call to him, and together we bolt out of the room.

Heavy, despite his name and robust appearance, can rival the speed of scout if the need arises. I think the reason he’s moving so fast now is because he of all people knows not to take the basic necessities of life for granted. I grind to a halt in front of engineer’s work door as Heavy speeds past me; there’s gotta be a spare metal patch in here. I reach into the dark room, fumbling for the lights. When I flick the dammed thing on, all I see is a room lined with prototype sentries, deconstructed machines, and hundreds of work tools I will never be able to name. However in the detritus I find a 5 foot sheet of metal. It’s heavy as hell, but the adrenaline in my system helps me haul it out of the dusty room and down the hall.

When I finally burst out of the back door again, I can just see heavy out of sight. “Heavy!” I yell, panting hard from the heavy metal, “Help me!” Heavy’s bald head turns, and he rushes back down the hill, scooping me up under one arm and the hundred pound metal sheet under the other. I yelp in protest; this is not a very prideful way to travel.

“Is faster.” He grunts, powerwalking up the hill with his strong legs. Soon we’re at the tank. I can’t exactly see it because a bicep is in the way, but I can hear the water gushing like a waterfall. Heavy sets me down and I stumble to regain my footing on the steep hill. With a massive groan, heavy lifts up the giant sheet of metal and slams it over the hole. There aren’t any screws or nails to hold it down, so he has to settle for leaning his massive weight onto it. I lean over, panting from running all over the place. When I lift my head up again, I give heavy a thumbs up, which he responds to with one of his own.

Suddenly footsteps echo off the hill side. Sniper and Engie are coming up fast, the Texan with his power bolter and the Australian looking like he might dissolve in the oppressive heat. Sniper comes up next to me in the same resting position as I am, face beaded with sweat.

“Blimy,” He pants, “I’m not used to this damn weather yet. Coldfront was a cakewalk compared to this place.” I nod slowly as the sweat drips off my chin, accumulating under my arms and on my thighs. I would kill a man for a chance to slip into some shorts right now. For the next 20 minutes sniper and I lean up against the one scraggly tree on the hill. It was long dead, but in the way it grew curved it provided some shade. Heavy held the metal onto the basin while engineer drilled it down with industrial bolts. Finally, sweating and overheated, we all watched as the water slowed to a trickle then stopped. A wordless man as always, Heavy simply dusted off his hands and walked back down the muddy hillside. He knew that whatever we had to say now, he could hear it at dinner time again. 

"Well,” Panted the Engineer, “The good news is that the metal in the basin ain’t suddenly coming apart. The bad news is that we’ve been attacked before the war term has even started.” I instinctively ground my teeth. This was a new low for Blu, and they were a generally low assortment of people to begin with. Attacking someone’s water supply in the desert? Even a blind worm had more class than that! It could take me weeks to convince the Administrator to send us half the water we lost. Even then, it would come right out of my paycheck; she’s surely have a way to blame this fiasco on me. Tired, hungry, and damp from the knees down, I threw my hands up in the air in frustration.

“This is great! This is just fantastic,” I grumbled loudly, “Hope nobody’s planning on taking a shower for the next week or two, because we sure as hell don’t have the water for that.” I see Sniper’s mouth begin to open but I’m not interested in what he has to say. This is probably my fault anyway. I should have been watching the facilities of the base more closely. If I had, some crazy asshole red wouldn’t have gotten away with this little act of war. Without another word I turn heel and stomp back down the hillside; I got work to do anyway. Neither man next to me tries to stop me, and instead exchange confused and concerned glances that speak one thousand words.

 

 

 

 

In the desert, the sun going down isn’t a bad thing. In fact, that’s usually when the true day begins for the wildlife of this barren wasteland. That includes the wildlife inside the base as well. This was made obvious over the next few days of living with the cooped up mercenaries. Every time the sun went down and the earth cooled, the 9 men would be out of the base faster than you could say “Free Beer”. Where they went I have no clue, but if the old truck engine sputtering to life was any indicator, they were driving the 15 miles out to the only town in this god-forsaken place.

I actually look forward to them leaving now. I know as soon as clanking and groaning of the truck fades into the night, I get a few precious hours of nothing but me and a quiet base with crickets. I must look like such a lonely person, I muse as I finish sweeping the kitchen tile, all by myself in a big empty house.

To be fair, I DID think it was empty until I heard the terrific crashing of pots and pans in my kitchen. I froze, holding the end of the broom like a shiv. Who was still here? I could have sworn that I counted 9 men piling into that truck. My blood chilled as I had a concerning thought; are the reds back to cause more trouble? Shit, I’m the only one in the base. Moving slower than molasses and still armed with a mop I crept down the hall way to peek around the bend. My heart stuttered when I saw a dark figure in front of the sink looking through the utensil drawers. And, for some reason, whistling? I watched in fear (but now mainly confusion) as the shadowed man grabbed a fork and a small frying pan, then proceeded to lift a carton of eggs from the fridge. Suddenly the light flickered on, illuminating a tall Scottish cyclops with his arms full of cooking supplies.

I sagged against the wall in relief, adrenaline still pounding in my ears. It was only Demoman. Jesus, that nearly gave me a heart attack. I rounded the corner to the kitchen, still clutching the dress fabric over my chest.

“Evenin’, Soaps!” Tavish called over his shoulder as he set the pan on the burner, “I’m makin’ eggs ‘n collared greens. If me ma taught me one thing, it’s how tae cook a damn fine omlette.”

I sighed in response, dragging the broom behind me as I went to sit on a counter stool. Demo turned to me, lifting an eyebrow at my response. “Not a fan o eggs?” He replies. I shook my head; I love eggs. They’re just so damn messy. And I’m usually the one that has to clean up the mess afterwards, despite the fact the I literally just finished cleaning the kitchen. My brow furrows at this revelation and Tavish chuckles under his breath at my expression.

“I know what yer thinkin’, missy,” He continues as he flips the sizzling egg, “Yer not thinking about the food, yer thinkin’ about the mess It’ll make.” Tavish takes a deep inhale of the sizzling egg before him before grabbing a plate from the cupboard. I fiddle with the skin around my nails, picking it with my teeth. It smells (and tastes) like vinegar and bitter soap. There’s a clatter to my left, and to my surprise a little plate loaded with fluffy eggs and greens slides into my hands. I look up, confused. Did- did demoman just cook me dinner? Seeing my expression makes Tavish break out into guffaws, bracing his hands on his hips with a laugh.

My eyes widen; he’s completely sober. When did this happen?

“Yeh gotta stop looking like a bloody deer in the headlights, lass. Eat yer’ food before it’s cold and I’ll clean up the mess.” He calls over his shoulder. He’s already at the sink with a sponge ready to scrub out the pan. A warm and conforted feeling fills my chest; nobody has cooked me dinner in years, and the seasoned egg before me looks divine. Within a minute my food is gone. I hadn’t eaten all day, but I never realized how hungry I was until now. Tavish takes my plate and washes it as well, leaving no work for me. The realization makes the last bite of eggs in my mouth sour. I highly doubt anybody on this team would do anything nice unless they expected something back for it.

“So,” Tavish starts up, confirming my fears, “I have a favor I need to ask.” Of course he did. I let my head come down against the tile countertop and rest my cheek on the cool surface; never accept a gift when you don’t know the price. I don’t look at him but respond with a grunt.

Tavish sighs and leans on the counter across from me. “I’m not gonna ask ye to do anything big, Suds. That’s a promise.”

Lifting my head, I give him a tired nod. I’m tired. I know I should do something to repay him for dinner, but my hands hurt and my feet are swollen from walking all day. What does he want? His room cleaned? For me to fix the heating duct under the couch?

Tavish grins, a slow smile that shows off his bright teeth. “I want yeh to come sit on the patio and get absolutely fockin’ shit-faced with me. Whaddiya say lass?”

Wait.

What?


	4. Owls and Alcohol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit, Soap's been compromised. ABORT MISSION ABORT MISSION!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow it's been like a year since I updated?? Sorry. I'm a bad person.

I clear my throat, confused by the out-of-the-blue proposition. “So,” I ask, “You want me to repay you for dinner. By taking a break,” Tavish nods as I continue, “Drinking your beer, and being generally unhelpful.”

Demoman nods as he stands upright, straightening his jacket. I’m seriously doubting that this isn’t some sort of set up. I’m the worker around here, people expect me to clean and cook, nothing more. Why is he doing this? I stand up abruptly from the counter. If this is what he wants, I’m honestly not going to complain. The last time I got a break was when I slept 13 hours ago.

 Whiles I muse over the pros and cons of accepting Demo’s proposition, the scot is quick to locate and grab an industrial-sized box of Red-marked beers from the back of the dusty fridge. It’s the only thing in there that’s not in an expired can or rotting in a box. I grimace at the brutal scene in the refrigerator; I really need to go on a grocery run soon. Demo is quick to make the connection between my sour expression and the fridge. He closes it with a snap, gesturing for me to follow him with box-laden hands.

The place that Tavish wants us to sit is actually a lot nicer than I thought. Most of the base is thick concrete walls and splintering wood; not exactly an ideal spot to relax. Much to my surprise the scot had found what must have been one of the only open and uncluttered places here; the rooftop. I crawled out from the top hatch, dusting off the insulation particles that clung to my uniform. The hatch hadn’t been used in a long time, and it sure was an interesting spectacle to see demo break it open with a crowbar and have ancient dust rained right onto my face. Of course he did nothing but grin and nudge his way past me up the ladder to the top.

That left me here on the roof a moment later, gasping in awe. I’d been so busy renovating the base as of late I had had nearly no time to stop and appreciate the beauty of the desert. The sky was crystal clear, a murky purple that reminded me of ink. Despite the new moon, the roof and surrounding sands were lit quite brightly, and I cast my eyes up to see glittering swaths of stars above me. The warm evening breeze blew around my body, tugging softly at my dress. Somewhere in the distance an owl screeched, the sound made crisp by the warm air. I sighed in contentment as I took a deep breath of the evening calm. This was what I needed.

I was pulled from my thoughts by the sound of Demo setting down the cases of beer by the edge. He sat down on the edge of the flat rooftop, legs dangling over the side in the night air. I sat a few feet from him as he unpacked the drinks. We were 3 stories up from the dusty earth below, and it crossed my mind that maybe alcohol and long drops weren’t a good combo. But then again respawn was here to pick up our human mistakes.

After a few minutes of sitting together and enjoying the quiet, I popped a question I needed an answer to. “Demoman, why did you bring invite me up here?”

“Thought it was obvious, Soapy. Th’ place is bloody beautiful.” He replied without taking his eyes off the landscape.

I rolled my eyes. Not what I meant. “You know what I mean, Demo.”

Demo placed the container of beers on his lap with a grunt and extracted 2 bottles. He popped the lids with his strong hands as he spoke. “Ya seemed lonely. And a wee bit tired… Not tha’ ya look it or anything,” He interjected upon seeing my glower, “Yeh just seemed. Drained. And I need a drinken’ buddy, Suds.” He finishes, handing me my beer. It’s not of the best quality. I know that because despite never having had a drink in my life, Tavish’s complaining had filled me in quite enough on the backwash-esque brews that Red Administration provided.

“Oh. Thanks then, I suppose.” I replied as I traced the bottle edge with a finger. A strange glugging sound started to my right and I turned to see demo with the bottle latched to his face, draining it in a few chugs. He swallowed and grimaced. “Try not ta’ taste it, lass. It’s like pig bile.”

I really didn’t need that mental image. The fumes from the bottle were odd enough.

“Go on, chug it down! I’m not gonna let ya get behind.” Claimed the scot brightly as he cracked a second bottle. Jesus, he really was not joking about getting wasted. With a faltering smile I lifted the drink, trying to get as much down at once as possible. I’m not really comfortable around alcohol, but the promise of forgetting my stress breaks down my argument quickly. The beer burned the back of my throat and I choked up mid-bottle, coughing and hacking something awful. Demo started to laugh raucously at the sight.

 

 

Soon it was time for my second bottle, then my third. The stars shifted over us, but I wasn’t sure of that was because of the time or because it was hard to make my eyes focus. If felt like my whole stomach was filled with fire, heating my arms and legs in the pleasantly cool air. I giggled, a light blush dusting my face. This was nice, feeling all floaty and warm. Next to me Tavish giggled at my giggle, and we started to laugh loudly into the night as we leaned against each other for support.

“God, I’m so drunk.” I whispered as I regained my balance on the roof edge. I felt dizzy but happy, now a lot more understanding of why Demo was in a constant state of inebriation. The scot let out a breathy laugh next to me. “Welcome tae the club, lass.”

The desert air cooled rapidly around us as the night carried us forward. When an owl fluttering overhead shook me out of my reverie, I stood up quickly in a panic. My vision went spotty, and I felt a hand on my hip help balance me.

“Wh-whoa there Sudsy. What’s put ants in yer’ pants all of tha sudden?” Slurred Tavish as he kept me from falling off the edge. I sighed in response, dragging a hot hand down my face. This was nice, but If I didn’t get to bed now there was no way I would be able to function tomorrow with all the jobs I balance.

“I got so muuuuuuch work tomorrow , Tav.” I complained to the sky. I can’t believe I let myself get this distracted to the point of where I neglected my duties. A feeling tricked down my spine. Shame? Shame.

Tavish made a dismissive noise, fumbling to his feet beside me. The scot turned towards me to heavily place two hands on my shoulders. His eyes were unfocused, but it was clear he was trying to give me some advice.

“Listen, suds,” He said heavily. I smelled the cheap beer on his breathe. “Ya’ don’t have to do all o’ tha’ alone. We-“ he readjusts his balance, “Or I, really appreciate yeh doin everything ya do. But. The boys and I. We think ya’ don’t want us to talk to you; like yer’ afraid of us or something. “

I furrow my brows in confusion. What? Why would they think I was afraid of them? I thought I had been very good at concealing my secret.

“I dunno what you’re talking about, Tav. You don’t have to pity me just because no one here likes me.” I mutter, batting his hand away from my shoulder and turning to leave. I couldn’t talk about this now, not like this. I might say something I will regret in the morning.

“Nae, nae, yer’ not gettin’ away tha’ easy.” I heard demoman reply behind me.  Before I had the chance to leave through the hatch, I felt two arms around my waist, catching me before I escaped. I yelped loudly as fear grabbed ahold of my system: I was being attacked.

“Let. Me. Go!” I yelled, words slurring in panic as I beat my fists against demo’s arms. He pulled me away from the hatch as I flailed, and I felt a deep sense of panic and fear take root. What was going to happen to me?

“You, Sudsy,” he grunted as he held me, “Are going to tell me what the bloody hell is going on with yeh.” He set me down with a thud, but when I tried to bolt he grabbed both my wrists. Tears sprang to my eyes.

“Let me go, please, let me go! You’re going to far!” I yelled in his face, tugging with all my might. Tavish’s eyes widened. He HAD gone too far. Suddenly I found myself released, and found myself falling to the gravel floor of the roof. When I looked up at demo his eyes were full of distress; the alcohol was letting all his worries and deeply buried fears come to light.

“Christ Soap, why won’t ye talk to us? Or even pyro for fock’s sake?” He slurred angrily, “God knows the little monster looks up tae yeh, and yeh just ignore him!”

Pyro? I thought he was only bothering me when he wanted cake or his newest stuffed animal patched up. I didn’t think he actually wanted to be around me; come to think of it, I didn’t think ANY of the team wanted to be around me. I thought they simply tolerated me.

“We’re like… family, Sudsy. Why are ya so scared of us? Besides the obvious hired killer thing, yeh know,” He clarifies, “We may be a private bunch in general, but we sure as hell know too much about each other. Except for you.”

A heavy hand lands on my shoulder again and I freeze, heat still pushing against the corners of my eyes. I don’t know what to think, or what to feel. This is all too much, contradicting everything I’ve led myself to believe about the team too fast.

“I’m- I’m not afraid of you Tav, Jesus, I’m not afraid of any of you.” I retort hotly. “I just. Look, there is some stuff about myself that I’m- I’m not too keen on telling you all. I don’t want you to think of me is a worse way.” I finished with a tiny hiccup, clenching my dress fabric in both hands and avoiding Tavish’s eyes.

The scot laughed. “Oh, so yer story is worse than a boy cursed by an ancient sword that stole his eye? Worse than a Russian gulag massacre? Oh soap,” He continued in a sarcastic manner, throwing his hands up in mock drama, “Yer story better involve the devil himself or it to surprise me a’ this point.”

“You don’t understand!” I barked as my eyes prickled, “I don’t want to tell you because when you know, you’ll think I’m WEAK and DISGUSTING!”

The sentence echoed across the desert.

I slapped my hand over my mouth. I got too personal, just like I feared. Across from me Demo’s eyes were wide and at a loss for words. “Just leave me alone.” I whisper as I look away. After a few hesitant moments I head back across the roof, clumsily moving my drunk self down the ladder hatch. When I’m out of sight of Demo, the tears I have been holding back fly forth and I gasp. I’ve been so used to hiding my secrets, forgetting my past, and this confrontation brought it all back. I run down the hall illuminated by the soft starlight in the windows; time to give into my temptation to lock myself in my room and hide forever.

 

Up on the roof, Tavish chewed on the inside of his cheek. _Ah shit, yeh done it again ya big galumph,_ he thought to himself. The bombsmith sighed; even through his alcohol-addled brain he knew that Soap being the odd one out from the team would mean disaster. She was the soul of the team, whether she realized it or not. She ran the house, cleaned, cooked, and gave them the family atmosphere that the men craved (but would never admit).

Tavish groaned as he dropped to a sitting position on the roof. There were 2 beers left, and despite being lukewarm he needed the numbness right now. Underneath the starlit sky, the Scottish cyclops drank and thought very deeply.

The team needs to fix this, and as soon as possible too.


End file.
